by A S Croyle
Sherlock and I exchanged a look. We both knew what concerned Lestrade. The previous year, the Metropolitan Police Detective Branch had been hit by a terrible corruption scandal that ended in a protracted trial and dismissal of several senior offices. It was in all the newspapers from London to Brighton. Richard Assheton Cross, the Home Secretary, a very conservative politician, appointed Sir Charles Edward Howard Vincent as the Director of the new Criminal Investigation Department.
Vincent had an impressive biography. He’d served with the Royal Berkshire Militia and the Central London Rangers. He had travelled extensively and spoke several languages. He’d also studied the French system of a centralized detective force while he was a student at the University of Paris. So now, instead of reporting to the police commissioner, Lestrade, Hopkins, Gregson and other detectives with whom Sherlock worked, all reported to Vincent, who reported directly to the Home Secretary instead of the police commissioner.
I could see the wheels turning in Sherlock’s mind.
“So you’re doing what you’re told. Afraid of your own shadow,” Sherlock said. “Just because the Home Secretary is monitoring Vincent, and Vincent is monitoring you. Oh, the spider webs of bureaucracy.”
“Well, yes, there’s that,” Lestrade said. “And now there’s this article in the Times.”
“Lestrade, all the more reason to get on with it. And for God’s sake, the coroner ruled the other deaths by natural causes. You are the one who consulted with me because you thought otherwise. And don’t forget that business in Kent-”
“Mr. Holmes, that was seventeen years ago. He is going to do the autopsy. That is all there is to it.”
I had not spoken a word nor even tried to get one in edgewise. But Lestrade turned to me and said, “You are to assist.”
“I am?”
“Yes, Miss... Dr. Stamford. In light of the coroner’s background, I would like a disinterested-” he put great emphasis on this word while staring down Sherlock - “and genuinely unbiased person to observe Coroner Carttar. Mr. Holmes has a penchant, if you will, for seeing things only his way.”
“The correct way,” Sherlock said in a caustic tone through gritted teeth. “You know well my philosophy, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. I seek only the truth, the facts.”
“Well, go find them down the street at the museum. I tried to get in to see the curator to talk to him about this Buddha statue that is being replicated, but I kept being told he wasn’t available.”
As Lestrade explained that the statues left at each scene were exact replicas of an ancient Buddha that had been on display at the museum since 1859, Sherlock scribbled something in his notepad. Then he looked up and said, “But I need to be here!” His eyes pleaded with me to support him.
“I think that it’s best to do as Detective Inspector Lestrade says, Sherlock. I shall assist the medical examiner in the necropsy and you should investigate the source of these replicas.”
“Very well,” he said with a sigh. “I shall be at the British Museum to see what I can learn there.”
“Sherlock, I’m sure you are right,” I said, touching his hand. “A message is being sent by the killer and when you discover what it is, you will have your ‘why.’”
12
An older man, with grey hair and weary eyes, entered the mortuary as Sherlock left. “Good morning, Miss Stamford, Detective Inspector.”
Lestrade nodded to him and I was unsure whether to correct the use of ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Doctor,’ though it occurred to me that it might not have been meant as a deliberate slight; it could have been that the older gentleman was simply unaccustomed to addressing physicians with that title. Until very recently, medical practitioners, even highly trained surgeons like my uncle, were addressed as ‘Mister.’ The title ‘Doctor’ was generally reserved for college professors and Doctors of Divinity. Even on my degree, I was granted an ‘M.B.’ - Bachelor of Medicine - rather than the ‘M.D.” for ‘medical doctor’ that some medical schools now issued.
However, I felt certain that the way Mr. Carttar addressed me, as ‘Miss’ rather than as ‘Doctor,’ was meant as an insult. I responded in kind.
“You are the coroner, Mr. Carttar?” I asked.
A grimace, then a smug smile. Finally, a nod.
Lestrade said, “Keep me informed,” and departed.
Carttar turned to me. “Miss Stamford, would you-”
“Dr. Stamford,” I finally corrected. “I am only able to assist you because I am a physician.”
Jaw set, he replied, “Dr. Stamford, would you be kind enough to gather several large jars? Preferably new... but very clean will do. With stoppers if possible.”
I looked on the shelves and found four such jars and set them on the table next to the body.
“And now a large dish, preferably porcelain, in which to place the stomach.”
“Yes, right,” I said. I found what he was looking for and placed it on the table as well.
Carttar examined the mouth and lips “for injuries or some evidence of corrosive,” then said, “Peculiar odor given off from the deceased’s mouth.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes and I noted it as well and-”
“Miss Stamford, if you are to assist, it would be helpful if you took notes.”
I nodded and grabbed the pen and the notebook in which Sherlock had been writing. When I turned to what should have been the next blank page, I saw a caricature that, prior to being dismissed by Lestrade, Sherlock had quickly drawn of Carttar. In it, Carttar was depicted in a woman’s bathing suit, floundering in the water. A woman on the shore, dressed in surgeon’s garb, shook a pointed finger at him. I ripped out the page and tossed it away. I could barely suppress laughter and while Carttar conducted the rest of the autopsy, I took the rest of his insults as a grain of salt.
13
Carttar made the primary incision through the abdominal parietes, and again the peculiar odor emanated from the body and intensified when he opened the stomach and intestines. He looked for signs of inflammation. Then he asked me to place a ligature round the lower end of the oesaphaugus and a double one at the beginning of the duodenum between the two. He removed the stomach and placed it in the porcelain dish. He opened the stomach along the lesser curvature and removed its contents. He poured them into one of the jars.
He separated the intestines and put them aside. He asked me to use a lens to look for crystals or berries and other evidence of plants. “Sometimes arsenic and strychnine are mixed with indigo,” he said.
But we saw no fragments or evidence of pigments that might be mixed with a poison.
We noted the appearance of the oesaphagus for corrosives or irritant poisons. These could be traced from the mouth down the digestive tract. He uttered, “Hmmm,” and placed the oesaphagus in another jar.
The blood was violet in colour, just as Sherlock had predicted. Carttar was surprised. I was not.
I recorded all of the results and labeled the jars. After the autopsy was completed, I made two lists of the jars and their contents. One would be sent to an analyst - in this case, I felt certain it would be Sherlock - and the other was retained by the coroner with the jars which were stored in a cool place. I handed my record to Carttar for his perusal. When he finished reading it, we both affixed our signatures as was required by law.
Carttar looked up at me and said, “I believe your young man-”
My young man?
“-is correct. We must test the blood, but I do believe this man was poisoned.”
“And the prior victims?”
“I shall give an exhumation order to the authorities.”
I untied the apron and disposed of the gloves. “Thank you for allowing me to assist you,” I told him as I put on my bl
ack cape, the one I had been issued when I was a nursing student at St. Thomas Hospital, which I still wore. It was practical on a chilly, foggy morning... and it made me feel mysterious.
“You will need to be at the inquest,” he said. “I do not anticipate that my findings will be in dispute, so I shall not depute you to represent me, but I would like you to attend.”
“Of course, sir, if you wish.”
I walked toward the door, and he called out, “Dr. Stamford.”
I turned around. “Yes?”
To my utter amazement, he swallowed his arrogance and said, “Well done.”
No longer able to complain of low spirits, and my feet swift and light as if they were negotiating a skipping rope, I flew down the stairs. I paused for a moment in the Great Hall of the oldest hospital in Britain... a hospital that now boasted over six hundred beds. A hospital that treated over a hundred thousand patients each year. A hospital that employed four resident surgeons, one of whom was my uncle, two resident apothecaries, including Mr. Brown, who were always on duty, day and night, a college within itself and a first-class medical school.
I turned to face the Grand Staircase and looked up at paintings that had hung there for over a hundred years: one of “The Good Samaritan,” the second, “The Pool of Bethesda,” one of Rayer, the jester of Henry I, laying the first stone of the hospital, and a fourth of a sick man being carried on a bier by monks. In this hospital, I had just conducted - well, assisted in - an autopsy.
I set out across the vast courtyard, dipped my hand gleefully in the fountain and took a seat on a bench. Then I opened Effie’s journal.
14
I let my fingertips glide over the leather and circle the crest of Effie’s journal. I thought of the many lovely books that I cherished back at home in my parents’ library, ones with which I had whiled away many afternoons in the sunny window seat. Now they were probably as covered with dust as the bottom of my long, sweeping skirts had been when I went to the stables until Effie made me pantaloons for riding.
I opened the journal to the first page. I recognized the handwriting, of course; the handwriting was small and delicate, just like the author. A shock of grief jolted me as my eyes focused on a tear stain at the silver-edged length of the page, just over the “d,” the final letter in her name.
Last Diary of Euphemia O’Flahertie Stamford
I turned the page and found a poem. I had never known Effie to write a poem, but nothing could surprise me where she was concerned.
You must not linger at my grave and cry
For in your memories I cannot pass away
In memories of the small things not forgotten
In diamond tree limbs and scraping blades on ice
In stars that shine and fairy myths and sunny summer days by rivers
In the autumn rush of blowing winds and secrets hushed
Softly tucked away
In trees still green and sky still blue
In wicker rockers on the porch and hope chests
Like ancient stories or antique timepieces that march on
In these I shall remain
So listen just before you wake, not just for tree frogs and the howling wind
But for the gentlest breeze, and for murmurs, whispers low
in the sweet dreams in your sleep
Do not weep
Something may lay buried there beneath the ground, beneath the grass
But I am not there beneath the petals and the sprays
For now I scry beyond the rods of sunlight
In the mists, in the haze
So do not linger at my grave and cry
Of course, Effie was as luminous in death as she was in life, and I immediately felt the tears begin to fall. I took out my hankie, wiped my face and continued reading.
August 1876
“I am not frightened by what I know is coming. I have enough memories for a lifetime,” she wrote.
“A wonderful childhood. A loving family. The truest friend anyone could have - you, Poppy.
“Do you remember, Poppy, that day we were cycling the grounds of Oxford and I stopped so abruptly that you very nearly ran into me? I was blunt with you - about your complaining nature - because I could be candid with you. We were the truest of friends.”
I did remember. Tired of my chronic lamentations about the barriers to women seeking a higher education, she hopped from her bicycle and lashed out at me. “You will find a way, Poppy,” she’d said. “Just as I will find a way to create beautiful hats and sell them in London. We will have what we want. Certainly, you will.”
Indeed she had. She’d opened her little millinery shop, despite the protestations of her mother and her future husband, my brother Michael.
“And then I found the truest love with Michael. I remember every word he has said to me. Always filled with love. Especially our wedding vows.
“Oh, my wedding day... it was everything I had hoped for though Mother insisted that I wear the current fashion instead of something more adventurous. She would have none of my wild sketches, even though I had already seen my visions coming true, especially on the Continent. I know you don’t care for such things, Poppy, but heed my words, what we wear now will be completely out of fashion in less than five years.”
She was right, of course. Within a few years, women had a very different look. The bustles had diminished, the poufs in skirts had dropped to behind the knees and the bodices were long and smooth in a style known as the cuirasse. The cuirasse bodice was corset-like, and that is the type of dress Effie made for me to wear as her maid-of-honour. My dress was pale lavender, a lovely satin, but it looked and felt like I was encased in armour!
I closed my eyes, remembering her wedding day.
Though she was not particularly happy with her mother’s fashion choice, Effie gave her fairly free reign over the wedding preparations and bowed to her mother’s wishes regarding the dress. After all, to Mrs. O’Flahertie, this was the day a girl prepared for from the moment she was born. Despite Effie’s fledgling millinery business, her mother still felt down deep that her daughter should have no other ambition than to marry and marry well. We all felt she had, of course, since she was marrying my brother Michael.
In the end, Effie’s wedding dress was breathtaking. Wedding gowns fashioned by Worth in Paris were the ultimate status symbol, but they were too dear for a professor to afford for his daughter, so Effie copied one. Her dress was made of cream silk gauze, trimmed with silk embroidered net lace, flared sleeves and an attached draped silk polonaise overskirt, also bordered with lace. She wore a floor-length veil.
My brother had never looked more handsome. Michael wore a frock coat with a vest of black cloth, dark grey trousers, and a folded cravat of dark lavender with matching gloves stitched in black. Effie’s sister Marinthe was the ring bearer and their little cousin Geoffrey had the important role of holding the bride’s train. He dressed like a court page. Our mothers were dressed in elegant gowns, of course, Effie’s in lilac and my mother in a darker shade of orchid.
The ceremony took place at a chapel at Oxford. It was a small, intimate wedding and Oscar was the sole usher in charge of seating guests. He made the most of this occasion, dressing in a frock coat similar to Michael’s, but it was impossible for him to be completely traditional. He wore purple stockings and a matching cravat. When he saw me just before the ceremony, however, he was aghast. “You look like you cannot breathe,” he said.
“I can’t,” I choked out.
We walked back and forth on the green just outside the chapel, waiting for the guests to arrive. “Well,” he said, “do not be dismayed, Poppy. The beauty of a dress depends entirely on the loveliness it shields, and on the freedom and motion that it does not impede.” Laughing, he added, “In your case, today you have a
monumental impediment.”
“But you love extravagant clothes.”
“Indeed, Poppy, I do. But one can have simple, charming garments in excellent colours and beautiful fabrics, like oriental material. I think I prefer a dress that hangs from the shoulders and allows freedom of movement. Beauty is organic. It comes from within, not without. And yours shines through even that medieval cage of armour in which you are imprisoned!”
He paused again, put out his cigarette in a flower pot near the church entrance and asked, “Do you remember, Poppy, when I told you about working with Professor Ruskin on the bridge over the swamp that made it difficult for the two villages to travel back and forth?”
“Yes, you told me a little bit about it.”
“I learned many lessons that winter,” he said. “It came to me that if there was enough spirit in me and my colleagues, we diggers, to go out and try to build a road simply for the sake of a noble ideal of life, then I could create a movement that might change the face of England. A movement to show the rich what beautiful things they can enjoy and the poor what beautiful things they can create.”
“To change the face of England?” I asked.
He nodded. “I simply mean to tell you, Poppy, that you are noble. You have noble ideals. Fashion changes every six months, after all. But you are timeless. I have always thought of you as the perfection of your own being, and when a woman is dressed rationally, she is treated rationally. She certainly deserves to be. You certainly deserve to be.” He conjured a wry smile. “And by the way, is Sherlock coming to the wedding?”
Of course, Sherlock was not coming. Marriage vows and celebrations meant little to him. I shook my head.
Effie arrived just then, brimming with vitality and energy. She stepped from the carriage, which, like the horses, was trimmed with flowers. The carriage to the ceremony was drawn by grey horses for luck. The ones that would take them back to the house after the ceremony would be white to symbolize the new and fresh beginning of their new life together.
